


sun is climbing (night is falling)

by graywhatsit



Series: double sided [1]
Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Compare and Contrast, Depression, Gen, M/M, Superpowers, i guess? if such a thing can have canon, quasi metaphorical nonsense, things don't happen the way they did is my point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-03 17:26:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4109017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graywhatsit/pseuds/graywhatsit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josh Dun and Tyler Joseph knew what people thought of them.</p><p>Sometimes, people were closer to the truth than they ever realized.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. sunshine child

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first thing i've ever written for twenty one pilots, but it's far from my first fic.  
> still, i'm a little nervous, i won't lie.  
> i hope you enjoy it!  
> (p.s. the title is a bastardized few lyrics from semi-automatic)

Joshua Dun knew what people had to say about him.

It was a little hard  not  to know, to be quite honest. If he’d said it before, he’d said it a million times: he was always on his phone, looking at something or another on any form of application he could get his hands on, including several types of social media. With the band being as big as it was-- which was  big , as in number one on the Billboard Top 200  big \-- people were noticing, listening, forming opinions.

Not just about the music, but of himself and Tyler.

It was a little wild, bewildering, to see all of these gushing tags and posts. 

Seeing their names become hashtags.

Seeing edits of interviews, videos, shows.

Seeing fantastic pieces of art.

Hearing the stories people had to tell.

Every single bit of it inspired by  them .

It was  humbling , even, in a way that he’d never honestly experienced before, and in a way that wouldn’t quite make sense unless you were there to see it.

Like Tyler was. He knew.

Tyler aside, however-- which was a bit funny to say, seeing how often and to what extent he enjoyed speaking of his best bud and favorite bandmate (that Todd guy wasn’t too bad, either)-- there was one thing he noticed, in just about everything he’d found himself tagged or mentioned in, that was surreal, that wasn’t the fan(non)fiction.

It was even eerily  knowing .

It made him uncomfortable.

It made him confused.

Sunshine.

Everywhere Josh Dun looked, finding himself, there was a 95% chance that the word ‘sunshine’ was included somewhere, either in the body, tags, or comments on the piece. Sunshine boy, sunshine child, his smile, his hair, his everything:  sunshine .

It wasn’t that he didn’t like the sunlight. He loved it, even! It was warm and bright, cats took naps in it, and the entire world kind of needed it to live.

Sunshine, like Taco Bell, cats, and aliens, was one of his absolute favorite things.

Just…

When Josh was younger--  much younger, like under ten if he remembered everything right, which wasn’t always a sure thing-- he had been out in the park, playing.

The grass was green and soft, perfect to cushion a fall, the sky was deep, beautiful blue, and the sun was golden-yellow, casting down rays of warm, soothing-- radioactive, but who liked to think of that?-- light.

It would’ve been a perfect day, if the little old lady hadn’t come past.

He could remember it, even to this day, as clear as that very afternoon; she didn’t quite look as though she belonged in the picture-perfect summer day. She stooped a bit, gripping a cane handle in one thin-fingered pale hand, wearing dark, swishing clothes that must have had her boiling in the 80 degree plus high humidity day.

It creeped little Josh out a little bit, because she kind of looked like a witch in those stories he sometimes heard.

She sat on a bench, near where his mom was sitting, watching him and his siblings run around like wild animals finally released from the cage that was their air conditioned home, his baby sister on her lap. It felt like the old lady was watching, too.

Still, Josh didn’t have to go anywhere near her. He was too busy trying to beat his personal record to the oak tree from the swingset, and having to tell his sister that she wasn’t  counting the right way, how could he get the right time?

Until he got thirsty.

Very thirsty, and the sole water fountain halfway across the park suddenly seemed halfway across the world, the distance filled with cracking, dry desert and lava oozing and bubbling up through the gashes in the earth’s crust.

Sometimes he didn’t like summer so much.

Fortunately, his mother had brought water bottles. 

Fortunately, she was much,  much  closer than that water fountain that probably marked the edge of Australia, for all he knew.

Un fortunately, the old woman was there, and he could feel her eyes on him as he trotted over, graciously taking the water his mother handed him, hardly hearing her admonishing slow  down , Josh, you’ll get sick!

He did slow down before he choked, though. He wasn’t going to disobey his mom.

Finally, when he managed to pull himself away from the water and give it back to his mom-- it was surprisingly, a little disturbingly, light, considering he’d only gotten it about thirty seconds ago-- the old woman, not a few feet away from them, spoke up.

“He’s got the sun in him.”

Both Josh and his mother looked at her quizzically, a little startled, and she smiled thinly, nodding. It was really all he could see of her, under her heavy, dark hood, just another thing out of place in the middle of Ohio in the middle of summer.

Whether he could see her eyes or not, he could feel her stare.

“He does. I can see it-- all the sunshine in the world.”

The words weren’t what bothered them. The words, if said in any other way, or by any other person, would be taken as a compliment, if an odd one.

The way this woman said them, however… it seemed ominous.

Threatening.

Like it was a  bad thing , and Josh was  bad just for having it, no matter how nice he was to his family or his friends, no matter how well he did in school; it was simply the only thing that mattered, the thing that defined him in his entirety, and it was  bad .

Suddenly, Josh was very cold, even with the sun burning heavy and gold and spilling down over his head and shoulders, shirt sticking to him with sweat, and he shivered.

“Josh.”

He turned his head to see his mother, still watching the woman. Her voice was sharp, a little higher than normal, and that unnerved him even more. “Yeah?”

“I think it’s time we headed home. It’s been longer than I thought.” Only taking her eyes off the old lady for as few seconds as she possibly could, his mother packed up water bottles, amongst other things they’d brought with them, and quickly stood up, Ashley in one arm, reaching out for Josh’s hand.

He took it without protest, because when your mom wants you to hold her hand, you hold her hand, and let himself be led away, gathering his siblings as they went. Josh could hear their complaints, of course, whining and trying to bargain for a few more minutes out in the sun; he even heard his sister complaining about being made to count and how Josh wasn’t being fair and wouldn’t switch places with her.

It was hard  not to hear it, but he wasn’t focused on it.

He could still feel eyes, icy and piercing, burning into his back, and as he thought about the words the old woman had said to him-- about him-- he started to feel something: small, dull, but incredibly warm, burning in his chest.

The sun.

He wasn’t sure what to make of it.


	2. the dark's not taking prisoners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josh had to be told.
> 
> But what about Tyler?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was not expecting this sort of reception  
> thank you all very much, friends!

Tyler Joseph also knew what people thought of him.

It was just as much of a shock, even an honor, to read, hear, see half of the feedback they got, either on social media or meetings post-concert.

It was just as humbling to get up on stage, belting out words and lyrics he knew so well, pouring out his heart and soul, and hearing every word shouted back by thousands who  meant it. Everyone in whatever venue it may have been, from small clubs or bars to massive ballrooms and even arenas once or twice-- every person in that room had found someone, or multiple someones, to understand.

You have kept me alive, he’d heard, multiple times.

We’ve stayed alive for you.

You  understand .

You know the dark inside our heads and our chests.

Tyler would nod, solemnly, listening to every word, and share his own stories with kids who clung to it like their saving grace, their last resort.

Then, he and Josh would sign things, take pictures, give hugs, and be ready for the next kids to come and tell him their own versions.

Of course it wasn’t just in person; though he wasn’t quite as engrossed in social media as his bandmate-- which wasn’t to say he didn’t have his own fair share of accounts-- he did read comments and posts, seeing the exact things he’d always heard in person.

Complete with references to darkness, of course.

This, right here, is where he differed from Josh. His friend was unnerved, even uncomfortable at being compared to sunshine, refusing to explain his unease even when bribed with any number of games or tacos or what have you.

Tyler simply accepted it.

He found it funny-- not an amused, humorous sort of way, but an odd sort of way-- and not entirely out of the blue to be suggested. After all, when you write songs about insomnia, about dark thoughts, about waiting for the sun, it isn’t a stretch to associate yourself with the other half or so of the day.

He didn’t even need a little old lady to tell him what was in him.

He wasn’t a dark, brooding, emo kid, not really. Growing up, he had his parents, he had his siblings, one at a time after him, he had his schoolwork, and he had basketball.

He had friends, enough friends, to the point where some would consider him popular, to the point he joked about it whenever asked.

He wasn’t alone, physically or spiritually.

But he was lonely. And scared, and anxious, and all sorts of things as he started into adolescence.

There were simply awful, nasty things residing inside his head and his chest, clouding his view, isolating him from everyone. They hurt his heart, his lungs, his stomach, his brain-- anything at all they could get, they used against him.

There was something that felt like a black hole in his chest, made of molasses and quicksand, sucking away whatever things made him feel at least  okay and greedily taking more than even that. More than he had to give.

His dark cloud hung over not only himself, but others, taking away their bright, colorful cheer, as well. It was a little frightening, seeing smiles fade to indifference, to frowns, to even tears, just by being around him. He brought everyone down, and it was something he couldn’t help.

It was why he spent so much time outside, in secluded or empty places, just needing a place where he couldn’t be a sinking pit for everyone around. The forest was a good one-- squirrels didn’t burst into tears upon seeing his face.

Not that people did, either, but it certainly felt like it.

It all worked fine and dandy for three quarters of the year, through buds and leaves and bright autumn color, but Ohio winters made it near-impossible to stay outside. It was simply too cold and too dark, and-- though it kind of fit his mindset, if he were to be honest-- Tyler didn’t exactly want to catch pneumonia.

It was a nastier way to go than he really wanted.

The basement became his own safe haven, then. Though nearly as cold and fairly dim, he was protected from snow and ice and whatever other things might be out there, prowling, and as long as he wasn’t in the same room with anyone else for too long, their moods didn’t grow any worse than the standard winter depression.

Which was another plus. A double plus.

This was where he found an outlet-- writing. Having always been musically inclined, he wanted to write lyrics, not necessarily stories or poetry. Music was his  thing , in the way that everyone had a  thing , and he would pursue it!

Of course, after an attempt leaving him with handfuls of poker puns and half-assed metaphors comparing the card game and life, he thought it might not, in fact, be his  thing . After a few more attempts, though, things started to fall into place.

His demons worked well on paper, honestly, and he found he didn’t feel quite so despairing when backing it up with piano or guitar. Nothing was quite album-perfect, not yet, not when he was 14 years old, but it was shaping up.

It didn’t stop them entirely, and Tyler didn’t think anything ever could. He would stay up for nights on end, needing to sleep but unable to find it due to the screeching snarling in his head, leaving him exhausted for home lessons and then actual school later on. The black hole still drained people around him, leaving them just as emotionally raw as he felt.

He lost his faith and found it again.

He nearly lost his life, at his own hand, and he would be lying if he’d ever said he hadn’t thought about it again, after.

But those things were just more fuel for this fire he’d started, scribbling down words on notepads balanced on his knees, trying to find a tune to go with it. At the very least, it was giving him something to do with his sleepless nights.

Tyler knew he had the dark in his chest, behind his ribs, pooling and swirling there like a little ball of ice.

But he did know what to make of it.


	3. the pros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're starting to get the hang of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for any waiting from now on-- i have summer classes and a job interview tomorrow
> 
> just fair warning!

Some people, some schools of thought and philosophy, believe in the concept of fate; some, in fact, make a entire fortune out of the idea.

“These things were  meant to be,” they-- and therefore, their most devoted followers-- would cry, waving their papers and pamphlets and books of so-called proof as justification, “they simply  have  to be!”

If one were unlucky enough to meet such a person on the street-- and one just might, as these believers happened to be  everywhere these days-- the conversation could turn to the concept in a blinding instant, leaving the innocent bystander bewildered by the sudden influx of uncalled for information.

People long for purpose and structure in the world, in some fashion or another, and if one finds it in the idea of a long-decided script written before time even began, so be it. Whether it is true or false, one must admit that things can and do happen in the most unbelievable way, at times.

 

 

* * *

 

Josh worried.

He always worried, about anything his mind could grab hold of.

He worried about how he was doing in school, he worried about his family, he worried about his friends, he worried about Columbus, Ohio, and even places beyond. He worried about aliens and their actual feelings about humans; he worried about what kind of sauce would be too much to put on his food; he worried if he heard a long and lonesome meow from the street outside, it would mean some poor cat was lost and scared.

Mostly, though, he worried about the old lady, and the sun in his chest.

He’d taken to calling it that, in his mind, at least, and not only because of her words. It certainly  felt like a sun, if a little smaller and dimmer, especially when he worried.

And he did that a lot, to the point he shook and was unable to speak for fear of losing his lunch, sweaty palms skidding on his jean-covered legs.

The old lady had said it like it was a bad thing, and maybe it was, with a burning in his chest not unlike heartburn, though not like it, either, but…

It didn’t  seem all that bad.

It didn’t hurt anyone around him, or even himself, though it was an odd feeling; if anything, it seemed to help the people around him.

The thing was, since that day, he couldn’t remember a time where anyone had been angry or down when in proximity to him. Whatever dark, stinging feelings they carried-- and he knew they did, somehow, he could just feel it on his skin-- seemed to just melt away after a few minutes.

The sun grew brighter and hotter, then, and before either he or the individual near him knew it, their cloudy moods were burned off, or had at least receded, leaving them with a smile on their face or with a little more resolve in their soul.

Like his father, after a particularly taxing day at work, unwilling to speak or do much of anything if it meant leaving the couch. Unsure of what he could really do, considering his father could be like a solid brick wall of non-communication if he so chose to be, a 14 year old Josh sat beside him in a supportive, not uncomfortable silence.

Before the next commercial break of the quietly playing program on the TV before them, about two minutes later, his dad was back to normal, even turning off the show to go and change, with a new energy to his stride.

Seeing he had this power, not just around friends and family, but complete strangers, was mindblowing, and more than a bit amazing. In seconds, he could make people happy, happier and more satisfied than they had been, prior, just by being near.

He was a  sun .

How could something that made people happy be a bad thing?

 

 

* * *

 

Tyler was beginning to work this whole thing out.

That grasping, pulling sensation in his chest hadn’t gone away, of course it hadn’t. It had been there all his life, though he’d never understood or felt it until now.

Writing was helping, if only marginally. It was the same with shooting hoop after hoop in basketball, body working like a machine, trying to get an even greater number than before.

He was up to 20 or 30-- he’d kind of lost count, to be perfectly honest-- free throws in a row. It was kind of a great thing to see in action, if he did say so, himself, which he wouldn’t.

Tyler wasn’t the type to brag, at least, not sincerely.

Even friends were helping, with the sudden influx of new faces, being unceremoniously shoved into an actual high school, even if they seemed a lot more drained when it was time for him to leave.

Still, it would never go away entirely, even with the arrival of spring, then summer, and every other factor he could possibly try to counter whatever those things in his head and chest were doing to him.

He was actually 16 years old when he figured out what was really going on.

He’d gotten a touch better at writing his thoughts down, no longer entirely relying on what he  thought a song should be and more just letting it flow out to be cleaned and rearranged later. When he sang them back to himself, and-- later-- other people like his brother and a few friends, things seemed a little lighter, a little more manageable.

But it wasn’t just for himself.

People started coming to him, though not necessarily just to chat. Someone to vent to, they might explain, looking as twitchy and washed out and nervous as he often felt, glancing left and right.

He’d blink owlishly, a little confused, but he wasn’t going to turn someone down if they really needed help.

After finding a quieter, more secluded place to sit down, whoever it happened to be that day-- from people he had classes with, to people he’d never even  seen before, even a teacher, once or twice, which was  weird \-- simply let it out, bursting through the flood gates.

Often, Tyler didn’t get much of a word in edgewise, even if he was feeling talkative that day, but he didn’t really mind. This wasn’t his place to speak, it was theirs, and he’d let them talk about whatever they felt like.

And, boy, did it vary.

Family problems, self problems, school problems; things he’d experienced quite often and things he’d never once gone through and didn’t think he ever would.

Their own demons.

Finally, once the last word was finished, they sat in a relieved silence for a few moments. More often than not, their cheeks were damp, eyes and face red, voice a little hoarse; they all looked exactly how people had always looked, being around him for any length of time.

But.

But finally, they’d smile, thank him-- sometimes with a hug, depending on several factors-- and walk away.

They were broken apart and raw, but starting to rebuild, feeling more hopeful than they had, with a few words of advice or sympathy ringing in their ears to help push them along.

The dark in his chest would pulse, choking him with cold weight, and he’d write it all out, himself, when he got home.

Until he could breathe again.

Until his every monster in his head, both foreign and familiar, was on lined yellow paper.

He was a black hole.

But that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.


	4. the cons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... Or, maybe they aren't.

And yet, though the universe and all life inside it is wild and unpredictable, and it’s honestly a marvel at how anything can come into being, with as many variables as there are in the universe…

Sometimes, things work out exactly as you’d think.

 

* * *

 

Josh was worried again.

To be fair, he  always worried in some capacity, about just about anything he could be.

This wasn’t news to anyone, much less himself or his friends. His constant, low-level anxiety was the topic of many a jab or joke, both benign and ruthless. Making fun of it was kind of a rite of passage in his circle of friends, or whatever you call people you hang around with.

He didn’t think friends made fun of your problems.

But he wasn’t worried about any of the things he was usually worried about, not really.

It had started to affect his sun.

He relied on it, now that he knew-- sort of-- how the whole thing worked. He was light-hearted, a bright spot when people were run down, grumpy, or upset. Joshua Dun was the thing that brightened moods and diffused tension for everyone around. People came to him when they needed cheering up, when they needed to smile, when they needed to just stop thinking to get themselves together.

That was a good feeling.

When he started doing it on purpose, not just by pure, happy accident, Josh kept a log. He wasn’t the organized, neat type, not really; it wasn’t professional, with timestamps on a spreadsheet or anything, just little notes on a scrap of paper.

June 20th, Abigail, 2 minutes. August 1st, Jake, 5 minutes. August 16th, Steven, 1 minute.

Date, person, and how long until a smile was back on their face.

It was a system that worked, and it meant a lot to see evidence, evidence that proved he was helping people, not harming them. Old insecurities don’t lose their grip so easily, after all. More than once he’d stay up at night, wondering if what he was really doing was good, was actually helping, was something  right and something he  should do.

Seeing the smiles wasn’t quite enough, but seeing the long list slowly becoming longer every day, every hour, certainly was.

He wasn’t sure when it started happening, but, over time, it started to take longer and longer to get people back on their feet again. From a minute or so, to five, to 15… the record was a solid half-hour of actual  work , not just being around them. Just being near wasn’t working.

With every minute longer it took, the less likely Josh was to look back at his logs. He was losing his touch, he wasn’t making people happy like he used to. Not to mention the sort of, well,  brand  of happiness he was getting out of it when he did manage to work his magic. It started to seem fake, forced, and the more he thought about it, the more that stuck in his mind.

It was mind control, in its purest form.

He was  making people feel things, and he had been, the entire time. It wasn’t solving problems; if anything, it was making more. It didn’t heal anyone at all, didn’t dig out the splinter buried under the skin, causing pain and infection. It was a painkiller, a bandage, and a “you’ll be okay”.

It was  bad .

The more he thought-- many long nights, and even some days-- the more the sun was starting to flicker and fade, leaving him oddly empty and cold inside.

Like someone had taken the silver ice cream scoop in his kitchen, reached into his chest, and simply scooped out his soul with a flick of their wrist, probably to put it on some sort of soul sundae, if that were to be a thing.

Maybe it was strawberry. Oh, or soul-ted caramel.

He didn’t like the feeling. Or the pun.

It made him more anxious.

And so the cycle continued.

 

* * *

 

Things were getting a little out of hand, so to speak.

It wasn’t that Tyler was  tired of helping people, not really. He would never tire of it; he wanted to help and be the void people shouted into to get rid of themselves, like snakes shedding their old skin.

Which was kind of a gross analogy, so he wasn’t going to use that ever again.

Still, he was, actually, kind of… getting tired of it.

Kind of.

Not the actual act of making people feel better, a little lighter and brighter than they had been before they’d spoken to him, but.

It was all he was, now.

He’d virtually become a therapist or a counselor overnight-- not overnight, over a few weeks, but it was close enough for him-- and, now, no one spoke to him.

Anything more than an occasional greeting or brief question in class, if one of his classmates hadn’t quite been paying attention, and anything less than that same babbling, crying unloading was pretty much non-existent.

If Tyler were to think about it, it was just like  before he’d become the endless void, except with more crying in his direction. When he wasn’t someone’s shoulder to cry on, he was basically a wall fixture, or maybe a stray cat.

No, people liked stray cats. 

Right, bad thinking, shouldn’t do that.

He’d never been a man of extremes, as far as he could remember. Quiet, mild-mannered, nervous-- except for when his goal was to entertain, which it had started to become more and more often. Then, he was the complete opposite, save for the nerves.

The nerves were his one constant.

Now, it seemed like his extremes were. For once, he’d enjoy a conversation a little deeper than small talk, so long as they never got to the painful, awful truths that compromised the other end.

There were other reasons, of course. One of which was he wasn’t quite the void he and everyone else thought he was.

Just because he could take other people’s dark thoughts from them didn’t exactly mean he could eradicate them completely. It’s all energy, neither created nor destroyed, just passed on, and no pit is truly bottomless.

Tyler had his own demons to struggle with, down at the bottom of the pit. That was one layer, the foundation. Then came everyone else, in order of when they came to him.

Some days, it was light. The nasty things bothering him seemed a little less strong, less packed together. On those days, fewer people came to him, with smaller or lighter issues weighing them down. It was easy to listen, easy to give whatever advice he could possibly think of to apply, and easy to dig them up at home to trap them with paper and pen.

He liked those days. 

They were becoming less and less common.

Other days were heavy and painful. His demons were starving, enraged lions trapped in a cage, snarling and roaring and clawing at his chest and his throat. It was hard to breathe and hard to think, and-- just his luck-- it tended to be the same with everyone else.

Those were the days he learned about suicidal thoughts. About abuse of all kinds at the hands of parents, teachers, friends, lovers. About anger and hopelessness and loss. They were dense and heavy, and those layers on top of the lions made them angrier, which made them push back.

Tyler became full to overflowing on those days, unable to lose himself in schoolwork or basketball or music, and shut himself in the basement, shaking so hard and breathing so fast that everything he wrote was unintelligible.

Then, he couldn’t help anyone.

He wasn’t sure if he was happy with that or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> actually getting to things in the next chapter
> 
> i'm thinking two more?


	5. pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little snapshots, and pieces finally start to fall into place.

Sometimes, the way to an end result is smooth and seamless.

Every second, every minute counts, and each is heading you slowly and steadily toward your purpose.

You spend every second practicing, preparing, learning, growing, oftentimes for something you have no idea of, not even a concept in mind. Sometimes, you choose that end result, yourself, and fight your way to it, tooth and nail.

Using every last ounce of yourself to tug yourself that much further along.

You have no time for anything else.

You need to get to the end.

Everything but the skills and connections related to that end fall to the wayside, and you become driven, single-minded, in that the only way to truly be is to  become that end result, and as quickly as possible.

Your entire life, consumed not by the journey, but by the destination.

Whether it comes easy or difficult, whether you chose it and fought or simply let the dice lay as they fell-- you are not you. You are your ending, nothing more, nothing less.

Other times, things go piece by piece, and-- sometimes-- that’s even harder than fighting for it.

 

 

* * *

 

Josh was even more anxious than usual.

His sun was dying, the people around him weren’t acting right, and he was pretty sure he was the sole reason for both.

A long walk in early summer actually helped, a lot more than he’d originally thought.

“Please, Josh,” his mom had asked him, seeing her son tense, clenching fists and ruffled hair, unable to sit still and yet somehow not going anywhere at all. “Just-- you need to get out of the house for a little while. It’ll do you good to get some fresh air and sunshine.”

The boy had flinched, snapping to attention at the mention of the word, watching her face for any sign of the original contempt it had been spoken with, when he was a boy. A younger boy, anyway.

She didn’t give any sign of it, nor did she say another word, but the look on her face was enough to get him out the door.

He really couldn’t say no to his mom.

 

* * *

 

Tyler was learning more instruments than he’d previously thought he could.

Sports were still important, obviously. He was getting older, old enough to start thinking about his future. With his proficiency-- at least, what he thought was proficient, they said he was starting to approach record territory-- and heavy encouragement from his parents, it seemed like that was the only option he had.

But.

He’d learned guitar. Had learned piano.

He wasn’t bad at them, really.

He saw that ukulele and just couldn’t help himself. Learning to put his fingers in the right positions to play that brought back a familiar ache, one he hadn’t felt since he’d first touched a guitar.

On the plus side, he didn’t have to deal with bleeding fingers, anymore. Just keeping the nails on his right hand a little longer. Not as painful, but about as obnoxious.

He tended to bite, sometimes.

And it wasn’t just physical instruments. His voice was coming along, even if it had sounded so, so childish when he first played it back for himself.

His lyrics were better. Darker, but stronger.

He was better.

 

 

* * *

 

Josh found the drums that day.

He hadn’t exactly been  looking for the music store-- though he’d been there, quite a few times, mostly if not entirely in secret-- and yet, there he was, 20 minutes later.

Right outside the music store.

For a moment, he debated, shifting from foot to foot, alternating between looking at the sign and the door.

He was inside and looking around before he knew it, and another second passed before he found the drum kit.

Okay, he should probably pay better attention to himself and his surroundings, but that thing was just  calling for him. He had no idea how to  play , to be honest, but there was just something about it, simple but complex.

And it didn’t look bad, either, as far as he knew about drum kits. Red was a good color, like the sun rising or about to go down-- even now, associating with the sun, and he winced-- and the seat was pretty comfortable.

Oh. Right. He was sitting there.

“Hey, kid!”

A man was coming over, heavily tattooed, but not quite unfriendly-looking. Vaguely, Josh remembered asking him about music recommendations one time.

“Need any help?”

Josh nodded, and from the moment he hit the first drum, he felt his sun flare into being again.

 

 

* * *

 

Tyler was really onto something here.

His voice was gone, thanks to his throat being fully shredded, he was trembling so violently even thinking about being still again was laughable, and someone was knocking on the door to the basement, every pound on the heavy wood becoming more and more frantic.

But the pit in his chest was, for once,  empty .

He’d poured every last bit of himself into that recording, of occasionally-missed piano keys and frenzied, pained yelling rather than singing, and he felt  great .

Nothing was clawing at his mind, threatening to drag him down into the dark. Nothing from anyone else was taking up space, choking and blinding him.

For a few minutes, everything was peaceful, and going upstairs to face whoever it was-- it actually turned out to be his brother, rather than his mom, which was a change of pace-- wasn’t so daunting.

“Are… you okay?”

Tyler wasn’t exactly sure of his facial expression, but it must have freaked Zack out even more. He’d apologize later.

“Come listen to  this .”

 

 

* * *

 

Josh couldn’t actually afford the drums.

Which was kind of a problem, but wasn’t, at the same time.

One one hand, that meant he couldn’t take it home, but, on the other, it also meant he couldn’t take it home. He had no idea how anyone would react to him coming home with this hulking monster of an instrument.

They’d probably wish he’d bring home a trumpet, instead.

He wasn’t gonna bring home a trumpet.

(He did, eventually, but the  drums .)

The guy who’d helped him start learning, weeks ago, had actually laughed when he’d come up to him, nervous and kind of ashamed. He could feel his face heating up, but his sun at least liked it when people laughed.

“You know what you’re doing here, right? So work here. Earn it!”

Josh hadn’t been  aiming to get a job here, or really anywhere at the moment, but he wasn’t one to let opportunities slip out of his fingers.

Especially not when it made him this happy.

 

 

* * *

 

Tyler worked hard over the next few years.

He graduated high school.

He had places in Ohio high school basketball record books. 

He could go to college and play basketball and not have to pay for college, which was pretty much the best part of it.

That one song turned into two, then four, then-

Enough to make an album.

He released it, himself, one day. Down in the basement where they’d been created.

Tyler had never felt more nervous and excited all at once in his life.

 

 

* * *

 

Josh made enough money to buy the drum kit after a year.

Still living with his family made that easier, thankfully. He didn’t want to know how much longer he could wait, and he knew he would have to if he was really independent.

A job was a job, though, and though he’d gotten what he started out for-- that wonderful bright red drum kit and enough sticks to recreate the Brooklyn Bridge, probably, because he had a tendency to break them and make his skins even  more red-- he would need the money eventually.

So he kept at it.

At least it wasn’t a difficult, mind-numbing job. He knew what he was talking about, and the people were nice enough.

Or they seemed to be. He never knew if that was him or they were just naturally friendly.

He hoped they were.

 

 

* * *

 

Tyler wanted to learn a new instrument.

His work just didn’t seem  right without it, and there was only so much you could make up for with computers and synths and pre-recorded samples.

He needed a bassline.

At least there was a music store nearby, right?

 

 

* * *

 

Josh had been there before, looking dazedly at instruments and wanting to play, though unsure how. It really wasn’t that long ago, so empathy for the kid in front of him wasn’t so far out of the question, right?

Was he a kid? He looked young-- skinny and big-eyed and kind of nervous, trembling hands and all. Who knew.

“Want to see it? It’s a nice one.” 

His voice startled the customer, and when he turned to look at him proper, Josh felt the sun in his chest jolt, dimming briefly before flaring into life once again.

 

 

* * *

 

The dark cavern yawning in Tyler’s chest trembled, as if it were caving in, about to fill up, and then it stopped.

Hand to his chest, as if that touch would keep it from happening again-- or, perhaps, to make it happen again-- Tyler nodded. “Yeah, please.”

Whatever might’ve been snarling in his mind had quieted.

He felt normal.

At peace, like he did after he’d poured his entire being into that album.

He wasn’t going to question this now.

 

 

* * *

 

Josh hadn’t noticed at first, but he took his hand away from his chest, right in the center, when he realized they’d mirrored each other’s actions.

Weird. Who started it?

It didn’t matter-- he felt like anyone could see the light from behind his ribcage, through his skin and shirt, which he’d never felt happen before.

Except for when he was playing the drums, and his anxiety melted away.

Unnerved, he took the bass from the wall and handed it over, allowing the customer to inspect it.

 

 

* * *

 

It was amazingly nice quality, and it felt solid and heavy in Tyler’s hands.

After a bit of experimentation with the stings and how to position his fingers, he agreed to take it.

Still reeling a bit from whatever that feeling had been, he’d allowed the employee to ring him up and take care of whatever else he needed, and was halfway home before he remembered he hadn’t even tried to get his name.

 

 

* * *

 

They didn’t meet for another two years.

 

 

* * *

 

That happened through a mutual friend.

Josh was invited to a show-- kind of a cheering up attempt, considering he left the band he’d been in for only a few months-- and.

And.

It was hard to describe.

From the left side, where he was, he could see the singer-- he looked familiar, barely-- at his piano, singing with everything he had, sometimes twitching, sometimes trembling. There were new people, like him, not quite knowing the words but still getting involved, and others who knew the words and sang along, either to themselves or out loud.

He loved live shows.

He missed it.

But that wasn’t what intrigued Josh. It was the  feeling of the place.

He was getting anxious, as always, being around so many people, but it was melting the more songs the lead man sang. He honestly had to look down to make sure he, himself, wasn’t glowing.

It seemed to be happening to everyone else, to, some kind of heaviness and weariness being dragged away, leaving them raw but new. That’s where Josh’s sun came in, encouraging happiness, bringing smiles, bringing joy.

He stuck around after everyone had left-- kind of had to, considering the mutual friend was  in the band-- to hear them raving to each other.

“Can you  believe that?” The lead singer was wide-eyed, practically vibrating with adrenaline and whatever had made him shake before. “I’ve never seen the crowd like that!”

“I can,” Josh spoke up, before he really thought of what he was doing. He would panic about his forwardness later. “You guys were sick!”

“Sick?” 

“Uh.” His anxiety wasn’t coming back, as it normally would after such a faux pas, but it thankfully wasn’t needed anyway-- the lead singer grinned, nodding.

“Sick. I’m Tyler-- you’re Chris’ friend…?”

“Josh.”

They shook hands.

 

 

* * *

 

Earthquakes, sinkholes, landslides. The voices in his head drowned out, burned away by something bright and hot and loud.

 

 

* * *

 

Cool night light, soothing scorched desert earth. The shake in his body and twist in his tongue eased by clever words.

 

 

* * *

 

Chris blinked. “.... Are you two gonna stare at each other forever, or…?”

They had no sign of stopping any time soon, and it took half a water bottle to each of them to get either to come and help pack up.

 

 

* * *

 

Within two months, they were practically best friends.

It was honestly kind of impressive.

 

 

* * *

 

A year, two departures, and one brief, impromptu audition involving three tacos and a song chosen at random later, Josh and Tyler were in a band together.

And it was pretty sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally they've met each other
> 
> also hi joshler
> 
> guess you're in my fic now


	6. the duo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things weren't quite as glamorous as they'd thought at first, but it'll work out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey remember last chapter when i said this one is the last one
> 
> i lied

A companion met.

A partnership forged.

Two wholes to a bigger and brighter sum.

This is never the end of the line, not for anyone-- no one’s long, winding, twining thread is simply  cut once they meet such a compliment to themselves.

There is always plenty more where that came from, no matter what the supposed experts say.

 

* * *

 

Okay, maybe it  wasn’t so sick at first.

After rearranging things, almost entirely to do with band members and figuring out how to make a band  work with only two members, things weren’t so glamorous.

Josh had worked with a fairly established, though not incredibly famous, band before.

Tyler had only been with this one, or on his own. 

Josh was used to some better standards, with a small bus and getting out of Ohio.

Tyler had only ever known the Columbus area and a van.

Things were rocky, and that was a little bit of an understatement, considering that-- now they were only a  duo rather than a  trio \-- it was a little harder to get serious gig offers, and after one too many dreams about arriving to a venue and finding  no one there, Tyler was starting to question his dream.

It kept him up at night, almost as much as his demons did.

Josh could hear him, when they were either in the van or sleeping at someone’s place for the night-- his or Tyler’s, usually, but there was some variation occasionally-- and it was a bit difficult not to.

Try sleeping when you’re in close proximity to someone writing, muttering to themselves, or-- the worst-- crying and having a panic attack.

It’s nigh-impossible.

Of course these things got to Josh, as well. He’d had the same recurring nightmare for about a week and a half, playing on loop in his mind just as the album he preferred carry him off to sleep, of showing up without his drums, or without his clothes, or without people there to watch.

Naked and vulnerable and anxious, every single time.

But, when he inevitably awoke in the middle of the night, sweaty but altogether unharmed, to find Tyler doing… whatever he was doing that night to keep his thoughts at bay, he couldn’t find it in himself to be on the edge.

His sun tugged in his chest, though not painfully, and flared just a bit from that small, dimming white dwarf of anxiety.

Every single time that happened, he would see Tyler, illuminated by outside streetlamps or the moon or a lamp, mirroring him in placing his hand over his chest, as if he felt it, too.

It had been doing this sort of thing since he met Tyler.

He’d never known it to affect anyone else like that.

His friend would look up, paler than normal, blotchy spots of pink on his cheeks and hands, sometimes still crying and trying to breathe, and lock eyes with him. 

“Josh.” It wasn’t a question, not really.

He would nod, though it was oftentimes too difficult to see for either of them, and say, “Yeah, I’m here.”

The rest of the night, or at least the next few hours, were spent whispering in hushed voices, or sneaking to the nearest TV, if they weren’t in the van, to watch or play something to keep their minds otherwise busy.

They would fall asleep there, one side of one flush against one side of the other, and would awake as anxiety and sorrow free as they’d ever felt.

 

 

* * *

 

It only increased as time passed, as they started to take the van outside Ohio, started staying in hotels, started being away from comfort and home.

Being pressed right against each other in some kind of fashion seemed to help, even as it progressed from that to hand holding, to full on cuddling.

If anyone mentioned it or teased them, they were kind of a dink.

Cuddling was cuddling, and pretty sick, almost as much as their band.

 

 

* * *

 

Speaking of, their first actual gig together was pretty spectacular.

It wasn’t huge, not really. In fact, you could take all your fingers and toes, count them, and have more phalanges than people in the crowd.

Phalange could’ve been a cool band name, but they were already twenty one pilots, and that was way better. 

Someone else could have Phalange.

It wasn’t even that they’d released the new album yet-- it was all two year old songs at that point, with most of the new tracks not even able to be called as such yet.

And, in fact, it was kind of dark and dingy in the venue, with a low ceiling and a small stage that barely held the two of them, the drum kit, the piano, and their mics, let alone much room to breathe or, you know, perform.

They made it  work , though.

They had Mark, they had Mike, they had other crew standing off to the sides.

They had a number-- even a  small  number-- of individuals willing to see them play.

And when they did, it was like nothing else.

Their fear, their anxiety, was palpable, something you could taste in the air, but it melted as they looked at each other, ready to start the countdown.

A sun flared; a darkness trembled.

They’d agreed to put their all into every performance, whether it was for ten or 10,000 people, and they  did . Josh was soaked through not even a third through their setlist, hands rubbed raw and red. Tyler’s voice was already going husky and thin, evident in every new song.

But.

Tyler could feel the weariness, the exhaustion, being pulled from the people around him. If one were to press him, he could say he could practically  see  it, dark smoke hanging in the air. He was scouring them, the one to take away the dark and hurt, leaving them fragile but new and clean.

Josh, to his right, was pretty much glowing, and not just from the heat radiating off of him. It was vibrant energy, gentle encouragement, giving strength to move on, soothing the raw, new skin and helping it withstand whatever was coming next.

And both of them could see it, from up on stage, and everyone else saw it on their fellow beings.

Whatever was happening here was pure magic, something powerful, something  good .

That night, after everything was put away, when they were back and all staying over at Tyler’s place, they fell asleep cuddled together.

Not from any need of comfort, but from the marvel at what they’d managed to accomplish, only together.

Mostly exhaustion.

 

 

* * *

 

Concerts got bigger, and their name got bigger.

They released a new album, in front of hundreds of people, and the raw joy coming from their audience was just intoxicating.

Everyone was soaked from the drizzle of rain, some-- like Josh and Tyler-- from sweat, but it didn’t stop singing along. It didn’t stop people meeting.

It didn’t stop Tyler from climbing up on the speakers.

It didn’t stop Josh from-- a little out of nowhere-- jumping from behind his drum kit and hugging Tyler after that particular song was over.

And it didn’t stop them helping people.

 

 

* * *

 

They moved around the country, now, in their little van, overstuffed white trailer behind them.

More concerts, more joy.

More  magic .

But it all meant more nights of staying awake, and wondering if it was just a dream. That either Tyler or Josh would wake up and find that none of it had ever happened.

Wondering if any moment now, the rug would be pulled out from under them, and they’d be sent crashing to the floor, broken and bruised.

It hadn’t happened yet, but you never knew, and those nights usually ended with them in one bed, unable to get more than an hour of sleep no matter how close they got.

 

 

* * *

 

A record label, now, nothing self-released.

Another album, forged over nights of frenzied writing, over hands bloodied from drum beats, over Tyler losing his voice and Josh having countless splinters in his fingers.

It was an immense success, more than they’d ever seen before.

They went overseas.

They were on TV.

They were on the radio.

It wasn’t superstardom, but it sure as heck felt like it.

The happiness they helped create was the same the world over-- even if they didn’t speak the language, didn’t know the culture, that was okay. Whatever they managed to do every time, fix them, heal them, it wasn’t exactly discriminatory.

It didn’t need translation.

The growing number of people meant more work to be done, more energy to use, and fatigue set in more quickly than ever, but they didn’t regret a second of it.

Except for taking a shower each before they eventually took a nap, most likely together.

Always together.


	7. the rise and fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to start the show.

Still, you never know when a pair of gleaming metal blades will cut through your string like butter.

No one ever knows.

 

 

* * *

 

Another record.

twenty one pilots was bigger than it had ever been before.

Of course they’d leaked it early, because it wasn’t really  their record. It was for their fans, the Clique. Threading Josh’s sun and Tyler’s well into the tracks hadn’t been simple in the slightest, considering how it wasn’t exactly a science. It was magic, in a way, after all.

But they managed, because they needed it, and it was ‘released’ on a Sunday. Sundays were always the worst days.

More TV, more radio, more magazines.

More, bigger shows.

One, in particular, was especially memorable.

 

 

* * *

 

It was mid-summer, and the entire place was  packed .

Sold out, even, as quite a few of their more recent shows had been. It was still amazingly mindblowing, how far they’d come.

It didn’t mean, however, that they weren’t as nervous as they had been at their very first show together.

In fact, it was a little worse, hopping around to shake out the nerves wasn’t working, and they’d spent the few minutes they had before they were primed to start together, rather than on opposite sides of the stage.

“Okay?”

Tyler was still hopping-- well, more bouncing on the balls of his feet-- but he stopped to actually look at Josh. “Yeah, fine.”

He didn’t sound quite so fine-- in certain definitions, anyway, but now was not the time to think of that-- seeing how his voice was thin, a little breathy, cracking a little on the vowels. “Hey.” Josh reached out, turning his friend a little by the shoulder to face him properly. “What’s up?”

It was a gentle touch, and a gentle voice, but it didn’t seem to put much of a dent in Tyler’s nerves. “Just. I.” He growled a bit (hardly threatening, more like a puppy than anything), shaky hands fluttering at his sides, unsure of where to go. “I don’t know. I just don’t feel…” He trailed off again, frustration growing.

“Do you need me to…” Josh trailed off, a concerned frown forming. They hadn’t  really talked about their powers, not in depth or as such. He knew Tyler was easy to talk to about everything; Tyler knew he could make anyone smile. That was about the extent of it. “Because--”

“No.” It was reflexive, as was the tiny shake of Tyler’s head.

“Tyler--”

Said man stuck out his hand, covered in black paint, freshly applied and a little tacky to the touch, still.

A handshake? Maybe their handshake. Josh reached out a hand, grasping his friend’s long-fingered, slim one, and found himself in a hug, instead.

That was better than any handshake, to be quite honest.

Tyler sighed, a soft puff of air against Josh’s neck, and relaxed, enough to where he could feel it. “Thanks, man. I just get--”

Josh cut him off before he could say more, squeezing a little tighter. “Yeah, I know. Me, too.” He waited for a few seconds before pulling back, pressing their foreheads together, one hand on the back of his neck, where more black paint lay. “But we’re gonna be fine, aren’t we?”

Josh’s eyes were very brown, Tyler noted, faintly, breathing going shallow and not just because he didn’t want to breathe in Josh’s face. Very nicely brown, kind of like chocolate. He could pretty much see the sun in them, rich and gold. “We always are.”

This wasn’t an entirely new position, but the intimacy of it didn’t just throw Tyler off guard; Josh was a little lightheaded, too, but he blamed it on the nerves and smiled, pulling back before he did something else that would probably make Tyler or himself even more dumbstruck than they already were.

They were onstage less than a minute later, the screams from the crowd deafening them. This wasn’t the time to think of whatever misgivings they, themselves, had, about anything.

Now was the time to work their magic.

 

 

* * *

 

It was always overwhelming, honestly.

Even when it was just the two of them, back in front of perhaps a handful of people in a dark, tiny room, playing in front of others was just…

Immensely nervewracking could be a phrase.

Thrilling could be another.

This show was no different, but they’d been at this for years, now, enough to create a sort of second space for performances. A place where it wasn’t quite so intimidating, where they could slip into it, feel bulletproof, and let what resided inside do the work it needed.

That second skin wasn’t perfect, though.

Tyler sang his heart out, screaming at points, hitting the piano keys and strumming ukulele strings with such passion that he missed, once or twice, skipping a beat.

No one seemed to care.

Halfway through the set, Josh had broken at least three to four drumsticks, and the skins were starting to be flecked with deep red.

No one minded.

They didn’t mind, because they were entranced, drawn in by the words and sounds, yelling the words right back and supporting each man as they went into the crowd.

It was a massive one, today. It was a huge mass, almost like a sea of various shades of brown, pink, peach, raised hands and bright clothes and the occasional sign or beach ball. Wouldn’t be a festival without those.

It was so massive, in fact, that Tyler could practically  see the negative feelings being pulled away. Like a heavy, dark smoke, oily, hanging over the crowd like its own second skin and slowly dissipating, draining into his well. It wasn’t a particularly  good feeling-- it felt like gulping down a milkshake, sliding down the esophagus and feeling it the whole way, thick and icy, but with the flavor of cough medicine and rot-- but the fact that it was leaving  them made up for it.

And Josh was helping him with that, too.

He was nearly glowing, the bright warmth radiating from him soothing the sharp edges, keeping the worst things buried deep. It wasn’t just giving the audience strength-- Tyler had never once been excluded from the deal.

Things were going  well .

And then it came time for Car Radio.

He wasn’t about to retire it, not yet. It was still their most popular song, debatably, and it wasn’t quite old enough to completely disappear.

It was like being 50-- just not quite there.

But Car Radio gave him an excuse to scream even more, to stretch himself and allow others to scream with him, taking whatever else they hadn’t quite gotten out of their systems.

Besides, he really liked to climb things, even if security asked him not to.

Which is what he was doing now, scaling the scaffolding, metal bars burning into his blackened hands from the summer heat. He was sure in his steps, though still going quickly enough to not draw out the interlude longer than necessary.

It was always that way, but today, for once, was different; the miasma was still incredibly thick, and gathering in his well at a steady rate, despite being near the end of the set. He was starting to feel uncomfortable, with the dark cold bubbling at the edge, ready to spill over.

Halfway up.

Though he could hear the music, hear Josh’s drums, the sun was far from him up here. Whatever warmth he might have felt was gone, and anything residual was fading fast.

Three quarters.

It spilled over, unable to hold under the torrent, and it swirled around his heart and lungs, choking him, squeezing his chest until he felt-- rather than being in the midwest in the prime of summer heat-- he was in a freezer, or back home in Columbus, in the dark, cold, lonely forest with only snow and sharp, silvery stars to keep him company.

Dizzy, unable to breathe, Tyler’s fingers slipped from the metal, and he fell.

 

 

* * *

 

Josh wasn’t sure what happened.

He didn’t quite feel the same thing Tyler did; he saw something light in the crowd, slowly growing, something in their faces and their bodies that showed whatever his sun was doing was working.

And he could feel Tyler, feet away from him, a cool and soothing presence that took away his nerves at being up here as much as the drums before him did.

It was a good show, as good as they’d ever given.

And then Tyler was climbing.

Josh really didn’t like it when Tyler decided to play at being a monkey, scaling speakers and scaffolding and structures like it was nothing, like he was meant to do it. He grew incredibly nervous every time, ending up pounding his drums just that much harder in order to counteract the effect it had on his sun.

And it wasn’t just because he didn’t know the words to the songs.

Today was no different. Tyler ran offstage, getting into the position he’d scouted out before the show was primed to start, and he could feel his heart racing, the light in his chest flickering. He reached out to do little rolls on the cymbals, anything to keep it steady.

He couldn’t see his friend from here, save for a tanned arm ringed with black, but he could see everyone else watching him, necks craning, slowly moving their eyes as he climbed up and up.

Then, the arm was gone, people were screaming, and Josh just  stopped .

His heart, his lungs, his brain-- everything just  stopped .

Before he knew what he was doing, he was out from behind his kit, nearly tripping over his own feet and off the little pedestal he’d been placed on. His body didn’t feel coordinated, though he couldn’t ever say he was the most graceful individual to trip over the earth, but he managed to keep upright and round the corner.

He felt sick.

He felt cold.

He felt dark.

Tyler was on the ground, eyes closed, spread out in a way that was not him asleep. He knew what asleep Tyler looked like. He knew what resting and enjoying the sunshine-- Josh-related or otherwise-- Tyler looked like.

This was.

Something red was on the ground, spreading out from under his friend.

It was dribbling down the corner of a speaker.

He blinked, and there he was, gripping Tyler’s arm with white-knuckled fingers, and other people were rushing over. People like Mark, people in uniforms.

If anyone was making any noise, Josh couldn’t hear it. He was busy, eyes shut tight, feeling out for any sign of that familiar cool, sweet feeling, always at the edge of his own sunshine, always when Tyler was near him.

Nothing.

Not a thing.

His heart did something strange, a shuddery jerk, and-- curious-- he searched a little deeper, this time inside himself.

His sun had never been so small and weak before.

When they had eventually eased Tyler onto a stretcher, carrying him away to take care of him, Josh followed, about as lost and afraid as he’d ever been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to place your hate in a comment


	8. the silver lining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath, and a serious discussion.

Tyler wasn’t dead.

At least, he didn’t  think he was dead.

And the fact that he  thought was reassurance that he wasn’t dead, because he didn’t think the dead  could think-- or so his scientific half, or probably less than half, told him.

The greater part argued that particular point, in that-- as he believed in the soul and the afterlife, heaven and hell and a holy, almighty deity-- he very well  could be dead, just on his way to be judged and sent along to… wherever he’d end up.

Wherever that was, and whether Tyler was actually deceased or blessedly alive, he’d really rather not think about that, and he mentally rolled over and pressed snooze on his figurative alarm.

He was not getting out of this surprisingly soothing darkness just yet.

 

* * *

 

Josh, on the other hand, felt like  he might be dead.

He hovered, like a helicopter, unable to speak and eyes not daring to leave Tyler’s face the entire walk to the ambulance waiting.

Sounds weren’t working properly, distorted if they were there at all, and the ground felt incredibly uneven under his feet. With it actually being a fairground, expecting smooth floors was laughable, but this was something extra.

Every few seconds, he found himself reaching out, both physically and mentally, trying to catch something that told him Tyler was okay, that he was alive; they swatted his hands away, however, saying something he never caught, and time after time, he was left in his own head, no thread of connection between them.

After years of a soothing presence right alongside his sun, it was jarring.

Unable to climb into the ambulance with Tyler-- well, where  else was he supposed to go, his best bud, his friend, his- whatever, wasn’t with him -- after pushy and grasping hands pulled him back and away, he stood, watching the vehicle rumble off.

“-- follow it, okay?”

Josh blinked, slowly, and turned to whoever was saying those words. “Huh?”

“We’re gonna follow him there, okay?” Mark was gripping his arm, in place of a shirt to hold onto. Considering he’d tossed it three songs in, after all. “They’re explaining things right now, it’ll be a few--”

“Now.”

He must have sounded strange-- he  felt strange, broken and kind of numb-- because the other man looked at him with a mix of pity, sorrow, and fear, all of them strange on his round face. “Josh, listen, we can’t--”

“ Now . Right now.” Trying to pull his arm away didn’t work in the slightest-- Mark’s grip was just a shade or two lighter than the one Josh had on Tyler, if that-- so he simply walked forward, allowing his arm to work as a lead and pull his friend after him.

He had to be there.

 

* * *

 

There was no sense of time in this void.

Tyler didn’t know how long he’d been here, but his sense of time had never been the greatest, even with outside stimuli to help him along.

He could’ve been here, curled up, avoiding everything and trying to rest, for seconds or hours, for all he knew.

It was kind of nice, and that’s how he knew this darkness wasn’t from his well.

That place was dank, dismal, full of anger and fear and every negative emotion possible. It reeked of bad dreams, tasted like anxiety, and was so crushing he marveled that he could ever hold it all.

Apparently, he couldn’t. Or, at least, he had finally found his limit.

That thought caused something to tug, though it wasn’t in his chest as most tugs of this nature were. It was sharp, but in the dulled sense that it  would be sharp, if he had a body to feel it, centered in the back of his head.

A phantom pain, but why  there , of all places?

Another tug, and the darkness around him lightened a few shades, from inky, soft black to charcoal. This one was more tangible, but not really painful.

He didn’t like it, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Josh was outside the tent.

He didn’t  want to be outside the tent, but they’d made him stay out, because he didn’t have his own injury or illness, and he’d just get in the way of what they were doing to Tyler.

He’d scowled at that. It wasn’t directed towards the attendant, personally-- he’d never-- but he  needed to see him.

He’d been alive earlier. Josh had been clinging too hard to not notice Tyler’s heartbeat still pumping, dedicated to keeping the body and person inside alive, but.

But.

His anxiety was flaring up, conjuring all of the worst possible scenarios.

Tyler losing his memories, of his songs, of his family, of Josh.

Tyler breaking his back, unable to run or climb or even  walk , ever again.

Tyler hurting his brain, somehow, bruising gray matter and leaving him speechless, or thoughtless, or unable to take care of himself.

Tyler breaking his neck, and.

And.

No more songs. No more quiet ukulele floating through darkened, air-conditioned hotel rooms. No more soft, quiet voice. No more trembling, slim fingers. No more flowered shifts or shoes, skeleton hoodies, beanies, balaclavas. No more tan skin marked with black. No more wide brown eyes, messy brown hair. No more smile so bright it outshone Josh’s own sunshine.

No more late nights playing Mario Kart or discussing life.

No more naps, pressed right up against each other in sleepy, warm contentment.

No more nights where the only thing keeping Josh together was Tyler, and vice versa.

No more Tyler.

Period.

His lungs burned, and he could feel something wet trickling down his cheeks, following his jaw until it dripped, watery red, off his chin.

Mark watched Josh pace, back and forth, breathing shallow and fast, before he finally reached out, hoping to stop and steady him.

Josh was a hugger, though, and Mark didn’t mind.

 

* * *

 

It was really starting to annoy him, now.

The tugging was steady as always, but with each one, he was pulled up further, like a fish through water on the end of a line.

He didn’t remember grabbing hold of any bait.

He was up to rime gray, now, and it  hurt ; not just the sharpness in his head that he could now feel, but something spreading through the rest of his head, through his neck and back and rear end. It wasn’t quite as sharp, but it was widespread and constant, a persistent ache.

Tyler just really wanted to go back to his peaceful stupor, but that wasn’t happening any time soon.

Finally, the tugs in his head-- ...scalp?-- were finished, and he felt something cool rasp over his hair, leaving the vague feeling of damp behind, with something cottony and dry following after.

It was blinding white, now.

Tyler opened his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Josh  felt it.

He felt it, right in his chest, right where it always had been.

In the middle of his little breakdown, clinging to Mark, he’d reached out one more time, just because he could, because what else was he to do? Like when your baby tooth falls out and you always search for the gap with your tongue, faintly surprised when you can’t find it.

Weird analogy, but it fits.

There it was, a little weak, a little shaky, but cool and soothing and  Tyler , and Josh couldn’t move into the tent fast enough.

He left Mark to deal with the people behind him, cross.

Tyler was on his side, still a bit dazed, squinting even though it was much darker in here than outside. He blinked, slowly, carefully, as though every movement hurt, and reached up to his head. When his fingers brushed white cloth, he frowned, just the slightest downturn of his lips.

Then he saw Josh.

“You kind of look like a raccoon.”

Those were not the first words Josh had been expecting to hear, and it startled a short laugh out of him, ending with a hiccup transition into a sob. He wasn’t often a crier, but, well.

If he was doing it, he really must have been under some kind of stress, and Tyler frowned, instinctively pulling for it to collect in his well.

“Stop. Don’t do that.” Josh stepped forward, then collapsed right next to the cot, not bothering to reach for a stool or anything, instead resting his arm and head on the edge, inches away from Tyler’s face. “Please.”

Tyler frowned, but did as told, letting it go. “What happened?” He reached a hand out, still faintly coated in black, and brushed at the drying red tracks on his friend’s cheeks.

“You were climbing.” Josh took the hand, gripping tightly, and kept it pressed to his cheek, reassuring himself that Tyler was there. “You fell. Hit your head on a speaker.”

The tugging must have been some kind of stitches, then. “Oh.”

“‘Oh’, is right. God, Ty, you--” Josh cut off, jaw clenching, hoping to keep any more tears back. “You scared the hell out of me. You always do, but-”

Tyler flinched. “I’m sorry, J. I just, I needed to climb, I had to-”

“No!” He didn’t push Tyler away, take his hand from his face, but he  glared , the red around his eyes emphasizing the uncharacteristic expression, showing just how upset he really was. “You  don’t need to. You could have  died , Tyler. I thought you  did , for a second, for minutes. I felt your heartbeat when I grabbed you, then they took you away, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t  feel \--”

“Feel? You mean…?”

“I don’t know,” Josh answered after a moment, not really bothering for any more elaboration on Tyler’s part. “Something. You. Here.” Briefly, a hand reached up to touch his chest.

Tyler echoed it, unconsciously, then looked inside himself and  reached , to where he usually felt Josh’s warmth. If he hadn’t taken a second to keep looking, pushed past his headache, he wouldn’t have found it-- a tiny, weak thing, barely flickering on the edge of thought. “You’re really scared, then,” he murmured, not really intending for it to be out loud.

Josh barked out a laugh, a bit hysterical. “No, Ty, really?”

The unusual sarcasm stung, a little, and Tyler scrambled to explain. “I mean, you. I can barely feel…” His fingers were still on his chest, and it didn’t take much for Josh to piece it together.

“You, too?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m not dead, I don’t think. Leftover nerves? When I thought you’d… I thought I was gone. I thought I was, too.” He sighed, turning his nose into Tyler’s palm, still cradling his cheek. “But you’re not.”

The wave of relief was palpable, and Tyler could feel it, the little warmth next to his well growing bigger. “I’m not, and you’re not. We’re okay.”

The pair sat for a minute, in comfortable, relieved--  overjoyed \-- silence, before Josh finally broke it. “Tyler?”

“Yeah?”

Carefully, he cupped the back of Tyler’s neck again, like he had an hour earlier, and brought them forehead to forehead once more. Tyler’s eyes widened, and Josh could see the dark, rich brown, darker than his, almost velvety black in the center, near the pupil. Their noses were bumping, slightly, and if he just leaned forward--

“Josh?”

His breath-- warm, a little minty (toothpaste), a little lemony (lemonade)-- ghosted over the lower half of his face. Still, not the time. “Don’t climb anymore. Please?” 

There were arguments on the tip of Tyler’s tongue, ready to fly, armed with backup points and pretty much an entire PowerPoint behind each, but Josh’s pleading look, tempered with fear and concern and something else he couldn’t-- or wouldn’t-- identify, melted them away.

“No more climbing.” He smiled, feeling the warmth grow tenfold, seeing the sun come 

back into Josh’s eyes.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's the end!
> 
> thank you so much for reading, and i hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> if you have any requests for future fic, or you just wanna scream at me some more and don't wanna do it in the public comments, go over to my tumblr askbox at natspajamas.tumblr.com


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